


Of The First Kinslaying

by Natasha_Rostova



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Battle, But I just wanted to be safe, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Distress, Feanorian Week 2020, FeanorianWeek, Feanorianweek2020, Gen, Murder, Not super Graphic, War, if you know what that is, references to Bright Eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Rostova/pseuds/Natasha_Rostova
Summary: For in one moment everything changed, and the sounds of screams littered the endless dark, and blood tainted the shorelines. And in one moment, all hope of forgiveness was lost.
Relationships: Hints of Fëanor/Nerdanel
Comments: 18
Kudos: 16





	1. The Tale of Maitimo

**Author's Note:**

> This one is not a light one folks

It started quietly.

Almost unnoticeable.

Yet as Maitimo sat on the floor of his tent, the noise quickly became more than a ringing in his ear.

His atar was yelling.

Maitimo closes his eyes. Since the oath no one had stopped yelling. It seemed his atars new form of communication. It made his head hurt.

The pain came from within. As if his body was trying to burn itself alive.

Eru. Everything hurt.

Pressing his hands to his ears, Maitimo almost felt ridiculous. Childish even. Yet this newfound weight in his chest and burning in his head blocked all that shame out. 

Maitimo just wanted everything to stop. The noise. The yelling. The petty fighting over territory and ownership.

And so it does.

Even through his covered ears, Maitimo no longer hears an argument.

It is silent.

Then he hears a blood curdling scream.

So loud. And just as soon silenced.

And Maitimo feels a pain in his heart.

What was….

What was going on?

And before he can even finish his thought, whatever was happening outside turns to chaos. And the single scream turns into many.

Instantly he rises to his feet, Maitimo spares a glance at his weapons, yet as he stumbles from the floor, Maitimo only grabs the shield, before faltering out of his tent.

It’s chaos.

His people and the Teleri are shoving each other about, fighting with nothing but their hands, beating each other into the dirt with heavy blows.

That enough makes Matitmo sick. Yet he can't seem to move.

What was happening….

Then he sees it.

Not all are fighting with their hands.

His people have swords.

And all at once the rest of the scene fall into place. And Maitimo sees the blood against the dirt. The Teleri Elves laying on the ground eyes open with fear etched into their features.

Maitimo sees his Atar.

Standing tall. Expression lit with the flame that burned in his soul. 

Fëanáro's expression is sick. Powerful and cruel.

He's holding a sword.

Its stained. Deep red dripping from the blade and falling to the dirt, and Maitimo finds his vision blurring.

All at once Maitimo can see the death littered camp.

How did he…

How quickly had the slaughter started?

How quickly had this gotten out of hand.

He had only left for a moment…

Maitimo had only just...

Maitimo feels as if his feet are stuck to the floor, he cannot seem to move and everything seems to be moving in slow motion.

Before he can even think of what do to, Maitimo finds himself harshly snapped to reality, being shoved to the ground. 

It's a Teleri elf. Her garb stained with blood and hair a mess. Eyes a lit with anger.

And fear.

"You!" She screams, voice raw and broken. "First of Fëanáro!"

"There must be some misunderstanding…" His voice comes out more of a whisper, chest heaving for breath. Oh Eru he felt so sick.

She screams, and raises her weapon, a stolen sword, for Maitimo can just make out the Fëanorian Star engraved in the hilt.

His blood runs cold.

The sicken confusion is replaced by cold blooded fear.

Who did she-

Where did she get that sword?

Where were his brothers?

Reality seems to snap just in time, as Maitimo raises his shield, just before her blow lands.

The clash of metal is enough to make his ears ring, and it seems she is just as startled, stumbling back a few steps. Tests streaming down her face.

"Why!" Her voice is so raw. So hurt. 

"I dont… I dont know what you're talking about….I dont….i dont know what's going on…" Maitimo stumbles on the ground, fumbled attempts to stand. His hands are shaking too much.

"Kinslayer! Murder!" She raises her sword again. She’s shaking, the weapon swaying in her grasp.

“Wait…”

Suddenly, she gasps. Eyes filled with fear and face struck with sickly surprise. She sways for a moment, before falling to the ground.

Maitimo can hear himself gasping, as he quickly scurries to her side.

An arrow lay in her back, perfectly placed in her heart.

Instant.

It's his brother's arrow.

Tyelkormo’s arrow.

Crafted by Oromë.

Enchanted by the Valar of the Hunt.

Never to miss its mark.

And now the delicate feathers are covered in blood.

His gaze is suddenly frantic, scanning for his brother.

There on a hill, several meters away, Tyelkormo stands, his bow drawn. His gaze is stoic, letting his arrow fly before quickly pulling another arrow from his quiver, never faltering. Behind him, Atarincë holds Telperinquar in his arms. They seem to be fleeing to a small cave at the base of the hill. Tyelkormo stands tall, watching their backs as Atarincë struggles to run while holding Telperinquar. His movements are jagged. Shaky. 

Atarincë’s pants are covered in blood.

He should go help them. In his attempt to stand, Maitimo finds himself taking heavy breaths, chest heaving with the effort. Everything was too much. His lungs felt like fire. His gaze is dizzy, everything seeming to float just out of reach.

What has his atar done?

Had those months of battle preparation not been for Melkor, but for battle against his own people?

Maitimo cannot think straight. 

Everything is too much. Too complicated.

He didn't want to fight. But it didn't feel like he had much of a choice.

He had to do something. 

Protecting his brothers. He could do that.

His vision is blurred, eyes flickering across the battlefield.

He’s lost sight of Tyelkormo. Yet Maitimo reasons that his brother is well equipped to protect himself and Atarincë.

But that still left four brothers unaccounted for.

They were all with their Atar when Maitimo left to rest. They all stood beside him. And if his heartache was true and Fëanáro was the source of this anguish, Maitimo shuddered to think of what happened to his brothers,

Eru where were his brothers? 

Suddenly his eyes focus.

Makalaurë.

Makalaurë was being beaten.

He lay in the dirt, a Teleri Elf standing above him, striking Makalurë with heavy punches. 

Makalurës screams are muffled and short as each blow seems to land harder than the last.

And something in Maitimo reacts instantly.

His hand feels around in the dirt, as Maitimo finds his gaze locked on his brother. Suddenly, a cold metal fill is his grasp.

Maitimo tightens his grip on the heavy weapon.

It's weight seemed to pull at his very soul, sinking what seemed to be his heart deeper into some dark pit.

Some void.

Anything for his brother.

Maitimo stands, breaths shaking and legs shivering.

Anything.


	2. The Tale of Makalaurë

It was almost like sitting at the bottom of a pool. Water muffling the world around him, and consuming him in heavy slush. Slowing him. Slowing time.

Despite this, Makalaurë pushes back. Yet his strength is feeble against the craftsman. The Telari have spent more than an age using their strength to master the waters. To hand craft perfect ships. And something in the back of Makalaurë's mind says this is a losing battle. 

His strength is nothing compared to this conqueror of the sea.

Hours of training meant nothing. Years of practice in combat. Years of preparation that his Atar drilled into him. Years of preparation for battle. They seem to mean nothing.

In seconds. It all meant nothing.

He was caught off guard. Off balance. How unexpected everything had been.

One argument. One shout just a little too loud. Tensions just a little too high. Nothing to restrain the burning of his atar. And then-

One strike from his Atar. 

And now Makalaurë was to die. Because he was pathetic. And weak. 

And unarmed.

Another blow, too slow to block it, Makalaurë takes another hit. This time to his head.

Makalaurë falls onto his back, and instantly a sharp pain forms, ripping the air from his lungs. A warm drips from his nose, paired with the taste of metal on his lips.

He's gasping now, and his lungs burn. Each hit seems to hurt more, as his skin seems to ache with each movement. Makalaurë doesn't know how much longer he can take this.

The next blow never lands.

Makalaurë’ can feel his heart beat rapidly as his breaths tighten.

What happened?

His arms are grabbed and Makalurë screams, his heart seems to beat out of his chest, as Makalaurë shoves and cries in an attempt to release himself from the unknown grasp.

“It’s me, it’s just me!” Maitimo. Instantly Makalaurë gasps, heart screaming in his chest. The feeling of relief is paired with the sick shadow of death. He could have died. Makalaurë almost died. And his mind cries with the sinking realization. And he can’t help the instinct to pull away from his brother. 

Everything burned.

"It's okay!" Maitimo pulls him into a tight embrace, refraining Makalaurë's frantic movements. Squeezing him tightly. 

As if that would help.

Makalaurë can feel his heart burn in his ears, and the comfort of his brother is almost too much to bare. 

“Are you okay!” Maitimo pulls back from the embrace and shakes him. It echoes. Everything is…..echoing all the sudden. “Makalaurë!” Maitimo shakes him harder, and this time Makalurë can feel it, he can feel... “Makalaurë you need to tell me if you’re okay! I can’t go find everyone else until I know you’re okay!” 

Everyone else. 

Something he can't quite place has shifted.

His brothers. 

Where had his brothers gone?

Makalalure had lost track of them when…

Everything was a blur.

Makalaurë’s head hurt.

"Makalaurë I need to find everyone else!" Maitimo’s voice seems louder now, more desperate, but sharp. Almost like- 

“I’m okay.. I’m okay.” Makalaurë speaks before he can finish thinking. Pushing Maitimos hands from his shoulder. His head dizzy and throat raw from dry sobs. And now his mind feels empty. 

That sting of death is stronger now, the sounds of the battlefield fading from his mind. And it does not seem to stir fear. Instead it...it doesn't feel like anything. All Makalaurë could think of was his brothers.

Why couldn't he remember where they went?

Everything was such a blur.

His brothers.

Makalaurë tries to regain some sense of stability, and turns his head.

There.

The elf who stood above him is slain.

Sword still embedded in his chest.

Lying lifeless in the dirt.

Eyes filled with sick suprise.

And Maitimo has blood on his tunic.

Makalaurë doesn’t feel sick like before. 

He doesn’t feel dread creep in his veins. Somewhere in the back of his mind his heart aches, but a dull sense of adrenaline drowns it out.

His voice doesn’t sound quite like his own. It sounds like it belongs to someone else. Someone...someone small. And scared. 

Yet Makalaurë doesn’t feel small. Or scared. 

He feels.

Empty.

Resolved perhaps?

He can't quite tell. 

All Makalaurë seems to know now is that his brothers are missing. 

And Maitimo could not stay here to babysit him. 

“I’m okay.” Makalaurë repeats. This time an empty power sits in his chest. He would not lose again. He would not be pathetic. 

Makalaurë shakes himself from Maitimo's grasp. Staggering to the body. 

Empty.

He pulls the sword from the Telari. A sick sound stirs, his heart is screaming, beating in his chest and crying. Screaming and scared.

Yet with blood dripping from his nose, and a dull ache covering his body, Makalaurë swallows the horror that threatens to drown him.

He could not be caught off guard again.

He would not be caught off guard again. 

"You need not worry about me. I'm okay." The sword seems to fit perfectly in his hand, weight balanced flawlessly and even in his grasp. 

Makalaurë would not be caught off guard again. 

He returns his gaze to Maitimo. 

"I'll be okay. Go find our brothers."


	3. The Tale of Tyelkormo

His heart beat burned in his ears, and a sharp pain ached in his chest. 

Yet it almost felt…

Pleasant.

Just like the hunt back in Vailor. It was just like hunting deer. Tyelkormo just had to be quiet, and precise. For in the eternal dark, it was hard to tell friend from foe. He had to focus. Yet at the same time, Tyelkormo could not bring himself to concentrate on his task. 

He could not focus on what he was doing. 

If he closed his eyes when he let go, he could imagine it was just deer.

Not elves who screamed and cried for help, who lay on the outskirts of the battlefield. 

Those he killed as they tried to flee. 

If he closed his eyes, Tyelkormo could simply remember he was just protecting his brother. And his beloved nephew. Yeah. That was it. He was just protecting his nephew. From….deer.

It was all too sudden.

It was odd.

How quickly chaos had weaved itself into his life.

Mere moments ago, Tyelkormo had been standing silent next to his atar. Fëanáro had been demanding the ships still, screaming of loyalty and laws that Tyelkormo ignored. Maitimo had grown weary as well, leaving to rest. And without the calm diplomacy of his brother, things had spiraled almost instantly.

One shout just a little too loud. 

One shove from the Telari.

And one sword in the hands of his atar.

How quickly he had risen to the kill.

And how quickly Tyelkormo had followed.

The hunt.

Tyelkormo could not stop for a moment. He could not allow himself to sink into the moment. In fear that the sickness of his acts would swallow him alive. He shook his head.

Breathe in...

Tyelkormo pulls back his bow again. Squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw, he scans the battlefield for the closest target. It’s chaos, and in the dark it’s so hard to tell who to...who to….. 

Tyelkormo breathes deeply.

And there.

The Telari stands with a sword, a Noldo sword. He had murdered one of Tyelkormo’s people. And stolen their weapon. 

Breathe out…

He let's go. 

And another falls.

Why did his shoulder hurt so bad?

Celegorm shakes off the sting, taking a shaking breath. 

Focus!

Why couldn’t he focus?

It was just deer…

If he closed his eyes on the let go, he could pretend it was just deer.

Slow.

Slow breaths.

And he let go.


	4. The Tale of Carnistir

The battlefield seemed almost quiet from here. Almost.

Perhaps it was just the pounding of Carnistir’s head drowning out the clash of swords. Or the blur of his vision that made it impossible to focus.

Impossible to focus on anything but the smell of metal...

He was bleeding.

Red seeping from his arm and dripping all over the ground.

Oh Eru it burned like fire. 

Carnistir takes a shaking breath, gripping his arm tightly. It only burns more, yet He just presses harder. It’s an ignorant logic he knows, yet some part of him hopes that if he just pressed hard enough, he could stop the outpouring.

What in Mandos was he supposed to do now?

Despite his tight grip, the blood wouldn't stop leaking from his arm, pouring through the cracks in his fingers, staining his jacket and undershirt.

All though if he was honest, Carnistir was unsure what blood was his own, and what red belonged to this foe. 

His vision shifts again, the landscape blurring as his head jerks upright.

Oh Eru his head hurt.

Carnistir leans his back against the tree, his chest shaking. Even with the blurred landscapes and dull ache in his head, Carnistir can see his people, or rather he can hear him. He can see blurred shapes fighting, he can hear their screams.

Oh Eru everything happened so fast.

The screaming. His screaming. 

He didn’t expect the yelling to…

He did not expect the yelling to become cries for help.

Carnistir did not expect the red of anger to become red blood that stained. Red that was sticky and…

Oh there was so much red.

Distantly, Carnistir still feels rage. He still feels the adrenaline. Yet it… it was so hard to... focus…

Another sharp blur, another pain in his head.

It was hard to center the rage that once drowned him. 

He was so sure mere moments ago. Sword in hard, locked In combat. Caught in a deadly game of wits and strength.

How quickly he had sided with his atar. 

How quickly he had picked up the sword.

Yet the blood from his arm leaked, and the dead Teleri elf lay mere meters from him. Eyes open in fear, blood staining the grass. Hands still gripping his sword.

And Carnistir can’t feel angry. 

He can’t feel anything.

The rage.

Carnistir can’t seem to..

He coughs, a wheeze forming in his chest.

What was he supposed to do now?

No rage.

Nothing.

He had never suffered an injury like this before, he had never…..

He had never….

Carnistir had never seen so much blood in his whole life.

Oh Eru there was so much blood.


	5. The Tale of Atarincë and Telperinquar

"Shhh shhh. It's okay." A sickening scream echoes from outside, betraying Atarincë’s promise.

They sit, hidden in the small alcove just on the outskirts of the battlefield. Telperinquar curled up on his atar’s lap. 

"Atar." Telperinquar whispers, voice weak and strained from his screams earlier, "I'm frightened." His voice cracks, and the noise pulls at Atarincë’s heart. He withholds a shaky sigh, meeting his son's gaze. 

There’s a spot of blood on Telperinquar’s cheek, no doubt a remnant from the battlefield they fled. 

No doubt a remnant of the elf who…

The elf he had…

The elf Atarincë had slain.

Atarincë swallows the sickening feeling in his heart.

"Oh no need dear." Atarincë tucks a stray hair behind Telperinquar’s ear gently, subtly wiping the blood from his son's face. Atarincë fakes a soft smile. “I'm here. And uncle Tylk is here." Atarincë points to the mouth of the cave, where Tyelkormo stands, bow drawn. 

Before he fires, Atarincë returns his gaze to his son, distracting Telperinquar from the sickening squish that follows. "He would never let anything happen to you." 

Telperinquar seems troubled for a moment, looking down at his hands, brow furrowed in childish concentration. He tugs at his atars jacket, fiddling with the trim on his sleep shirt.

"Why can he not hide with us?" Telperinquar says at last, looking up at his atar. Atarincë pulls his son closer to his chest with a ligh sigh.

Lying it would seem, was an important part of parenting. Lying about where Telperinqquar’s annoying light toy went, lying about hiding healthy foods in snacks. 

Yet Atarince can’t seem to find the words to lie about this.

What was he supposed to say?

How could he tell his son that Tyklomo was protecting them from the Teleri? How could he tell his son that he himself was confused at all this? How could he say that he didn't know? That he didn't know when the fighting started, or why? 

How could he explain the creeping feeling in his gut that said this was his Atars doing? That whisper in the back of Atarince’s mind that knew this was a ‘misunderstanding’ of his Atars design?

He swallows the sick feeling. 

"Well…..well because he has to make sure no one finds us." 

"But why?"

"It's like a game." Atarince counters, faking a light hearted tone,"If you and I stay hidden until it's quiet. We win."

"I like to win!" Telperinquar says a little too loudly for Atarince’s liking, so quietly he hushes his son before continuing. 

"Yeah me too." He hushes, "So you and I just keep our voices low until your uncle comes to get us."

"Then we win?" Telperinquar’s tone is filled with childish mischief, eyes aglow with a game and Atarincë feels sick, yet he forces a smile, looking down at his son.

"Then we win."


	6. The Tale of Ambarussa

“I have a terrible feeling in my belly.” Amras whispers, voice low in the dark of their tent.

The battle had long been over, the camp littered with bodies of the fallen and their blood. It was clear that soon they would steal the ships and leave. For no one stood in their way anymore. They just need the order.

“You’re being ridiculous. They attacked us first.” Amrod replies, eyes focused on packing supplies into his travel chest. Amras sighs. 

He wasn’t quite sure that was the case.

“So what if they did? What does it matter? Everyone is dead and it doesn’t matter who started it.” Amras replies, voice drowned in heartache. 

He had long since abandoned packing, too distressed at the thought of leaving. For something had nagged at his soul since the first scream. Something that threatened to eat him alive. Something that the Oath had stirred in his heart.

“Are you not grateful for our survival? Our peoples survival? Your survival?” Amrod says, turning to face his brother, “My survival? Are you not thankful?”

“Of course I am,” Amras moves to hold Amrod’s hand, sincerity written on his face, “You are my brother. And best friend. I am always thanking Eru for your safety,” 

Amras sighs, letting go of his brother's hand, moving away to stare at the candle lighting the room.

“But?” Amrod questions. For they always knew the mood of the other. Always.

Even if it seemed that Amrod didn’t understand it.

“Do you not feel that sickening twist in your stomach? Don’t you hear their screams echo in your mind?” His voice is low, almost trancelike, as he stares into the flame, eyes glow with memories of the battle.

“You’re being ridiculous, I don’t feel anything.” Amrod replies and Amras hears his brother resume packing. And finally the distress within his heart snaps.

“You don’t feel regret?” Amras cries, spinning to face Amrod. Face riddled with guilt.

“We survived! How are you not grateful!” Amrod returns, face as stone. Unreadable and cold.

“I am! I am!” He cries. “I am.”

They fall into a dull silence, unable to find new words as Amras falls into quiet tears.

Amrod does not move to comfort him.

After a moment he continues.

“But This isn’t right. I can’t live like this. we have to go home.” Amras shifts his tone to a whisper, wrapping his arms around his frame. 

Despite the quiet, Amrod returns with a shout.

“How! How can we go home? Do you think they’ll let you return?” 

“Ammë would help us! She wanted us to stay!” Amras defends, grappling at his brother's hands. “We would go to her.” His tone is heartfelt, yet Amrod pulls his hands away.

“That was before we killed the unarmed! And spilt their blood on their land! Do you think she’ll love us now?!” Amrod cries, and Amras can feel his blood run cold.

“How could you say that.” Amras whispers, eyes wide and vision blurring with tears, “Ammë would never abandon us.” His tone is desperate now, searching for reassurance.

“How could you be so ignorant?” Amrod says, “Can you not see what we have done is unforgivable? Can you not see the only path is forward? There is no going back.”

“You can always go home.”

“Not this time.”


	7. The Tale of Fëanáro

“Will you love me forever?” Her voice is soft and delicate. Features relaxed and face oh so close to his.

In the quiet candlelight of their living room Nerdanel stares at him, lips tinted in a soft smile. Yet Fëanáro can see some sadness behind her eyes, as if she knows a dark secret.

“Even longer.” He replies, voice merely a whisper. 

She laughs breathlessly, eyes lit in a bright happiness.

What a wonderful sound…

Reality however, now seemed much harsher.

In the battlefield he lays, replaying the memory in his mind as he stares at the dark sky. If he didn’t know better, Fëanáro could have swore he could still hear her laugh ringing in his heart all these years later,

A cough ripples from his chest, and Fëanáro feels a sharp pain near his heart. Everything aches and his muscles burn with every breath.

The battlefield reeked of smoke and blood, a new sensation, one that wormed and burned in his chest, yet he couldn’t allow himself to move. As much as the whole situation seemed to pull at something in the back of his mind, Fëanáro cannot seem to pull the sick feeling to the surface. Everything felt so distant. Just out of reach.

He just.

Laid there. 

Unharmed and exhausted. Covered in the sticky combination of dirt and blood. 

Yet the fire within him burned, and devoured the sickening ache in his stomach.

It feed on it. 

He feed on it.

Along with it however, the whisper of her lingered, and whipped around his heart. Dulling the flames that nipped at his vision.

“I think...I think I like you…. a lot...”

“I do not believe in love either, but if you wish you pretend it exists with me….Then...I suppose…I think I like you very much too.” 

Fëanáro sits up suddenly, a hash attempt to brush the vision of her face from his mind. Shaking his head quickly.

Oh.

Everything ached.

"Atar!" Nelyafinwë. Fëanáro lifts his gaze, and sees his eldest running to him. Nelyafinwë is covered in blood, his casual wear now ripped and frayed. Yet his eyes are the worst, Nelyo looks frightened. Yet Fëanáro can’t find it in him to rush to comfort his son. 

Nelyafinwë falls to the ground and hugs Fëanáro tightly, his breath shaking. Fëanáro feels his heart stop. Yet the rush of cold blood only causes him to freeze in Neylo’s embrace. 

"Oh thank the Valar! I thought you...I thought. I'm just so glad you're alright." Neylo pulls away from the hug and examines his atar. Fëanáro can tell by the furrow of his sons brow, that Neylo doesn’t seem satisfied with that he sees.

"I'm fine." Fëanáro hears himself respond. His voice sounded...odd… He shakes himself from Neylafinwë’s grasp. “Where are your brothers?"

"They're alright…." Nelyafinwë pauses. "I mean they're safe. Cara is with a healer. They say he’ll be fine. Atar- he lost so much blood…”

Neylo keeps speaking, yet Fëanáro finds himself unable to hear. There’s a slight buzz in his head, and he swears he can hear her laugh again.

Morifinwë…

What had happened?

Fëanáro can’t seem to focus, everything felt so far away. 

"Atar, what are we to do now?" Nelyafinwë’s voice breaks through Fëanáro’s trance.

Fëanáro feels his head spin, the world shifting slightly.

“Now…” Fëanáro murmurs. 

What to do now…

Fëanáro can feel his eyes brush across the battlefield. Although his vision is blurred, somewhere in the back of his mind, Fëanáro knows the scene should make him sick.

Yet he doesn’t seem to feel anything.

Yet one thing is for certain.

No one else would understand.

No one would understand that this was what must be done. No one would understand. Fëanáro rises to his feet, legs slightly shaken.

“Leave no remnants of this day.” Fëanáro says at last, voice less dazed now. More sure. The battlefield must be cleansed.

“What? Why?” Nelyafinwë sounds almost desperate, but Fëanáro can’t seem to place the feeling in his chest.

Fëanáro just feels hollow, raising an eyebrow, ignoring the complaint and continuing.

“Count our dead, and toss the water elves into the sea, they have no place among the ground of the living,”

“Some of them are merely wounded. Not dead. What of them?”

“The sea Neylafinwë. Toss them in the sea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a kudo and a comment if you enjoyed! It really encourages me!


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